


Trix Are For Kids

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Multi, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is on a steep learning curve, Grantaire is a film geek, and Cosette is a catalyst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wait For The Crème

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently this is what happens when I finish the Brick and then marathon Tarantino films for two days.

Enjolras just didn’t _get_ women. It wasn’t due to dislike, precisely; more like disinterest. He didn’t know enough about women for there to be any distinct impression for him to dislike. Attending an all boys school had resulted in all of his friends being boys, and unlike his friends, the absence of any major non-familial feminine presence in his life never resulted in knee-jerk fascination with every young woman he ever met.

He was too busy to care about things like girls, at any rate; busy studying, busy organising meetings and protests, busy getting detention after detention for arguing furiously with his teachers during class. He found himself indifferent to the whole topic of sex, finding it not so much awkward or embarrassing as boring and ultimately pointless — growing up alongside a hormone-crazed Courfeyrac left him with more knowledge on the subject than he’d ever really cared to have, and none of it piqued his interest. At an age when a whole conversation could be derailed at a moment’s notice by the mere mention of girls, Enjolras was left to sit in increasingly frustrated silence, completely at a loss as to what all the fuss was about. Only Combeferre seemed similarly disinclined to waste his breath gossiping about the so-called fairer sex. Enjolras wasn’t sure that this indicated a genuine lack of interest so much as an unwillingness to engage in what could be perceived as disrespectful discussion, but he was prepared to take what he could get. So it went, right through high school and on through the first year of university.

And then he met Cosette.

Marius introduced them, of course. He had been persuaded to bring his fabled lady love to a meeting at the Musain — mostly in hopes that he would cut back on the gushing if they all knew her. She was, surprisingly, every bit as gorgeous and charming as Marius had claimed — petite and very pretty, blue-eyed with golden brown hair and a disarming smile. Cosette was, as it turned out, the kind of girl who smelled sweet and wore stockings and knew the names of individual boy band members. She was also the kind of girl who had been on the debate team in high school and had well thought-out opinions on social and political issues. She was kind, clever, and incredibly difficult to disagree with.

Enjolras _liked_ her.

That isn’t to say he didn’t like Éponine or Musichetta, both of whom he knew reasonably well and saw with increasing frequency since they had decided as a group to begin holding official meetings; but he’d never clicked with either of them the way he did with Cosette — effortlessly and unexpectedly.

Enjolras did not, in truth, make friends easily. He had no trouble drawing people’s interest — he was beautiful, and charismatic without trying at all; it was just the way he was — but most of his acquaintances remained at arm’s length, intimidated by his intensity, or thrown by how little he cared about things like ‘hanging out’. Cosette had no such trouble. She listened patiently and offered feedback when he talked for hours about the flawed structure of society or the latest attempt to infringe on the people’s rights; and when he fell off the map entirely for more than a week at a time she would simply show up unannounced at his apartment and check that he was still breathing. He decided that there really wasn’t anything all that different about being friends with a girl, after all.

\---

When Courfeyrac’s 20th birthday came around, of course, he had to throw a party. Being Courfeyrac, he wasn’t content to celebrate such an occasion with just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill gathering involving wall-to-wall people and obscene amounts of booze. No, it had to be a dress up party.

“Why?” Bahorel groaned in response to this dire announcement.

Courfeyrac’s face fell. “Because it’s my birthday and I say so, that’s why. C’mon, it’ll be great!”

“What’s the theme?” Jehan asked cautiously.

Courfeyrac shrugged. “I have a few ideas, but I can’t settle on one, so I thought we could all write something down and throw it in a hat and randomly pick one. Seems fair, right?”

In the end the only hat to be found was Grantaire’s beanie, which he clamped to his head with both hands and adamantly refused to be parted from; so they begged a soup bowl from one of the baristas instead. After a brief flurry of debate over who should be the one to draw the theme from the bowl, it was decided that Enjolras should do it. He rolled his eyes, but obliged without complaint.

“Well, what is it?” Courfeyrac asked excitedly.

Enjolras peered at the slip of paper he’d picked out of the bowl and frowned slightly. “Quentin Tarantino.”

There was a moment of silence as everyone processed the words. Courfeyrac broke it by shouting, “That is _genius_!” Joly and Bossuet looked at each other with identical grins on their faces and Éponine hissed, “ _Yes_ ,” under her breath.

“Whose idea was it? I don’t recognise the handwriting,” Enjolras said, looking around the room.

“Guilty!” Grantaire singsonged from the back of the group.

Enjolras repressed a sigh. Of course. “What does a Quentin Tarantino themed party even consist of? Isn’t he a director?”

“He is,” Grantaire agreed pleasantly.

“Obviously you are all hereby expected to dress up as a character from a Tarantino film,” Courfeyrac interjected.

“That does sound kind of awesome,” Feuilly admitted.

“Does Planet Terror count as a Tarantino film?” Musichetta wondered aloud.

“It wasn’t directed by him,” Bossuet objected.

“But he was heavily involved in its production, and it was released as part of a double-feature under his name,” Combeferre argued. “Courfeyrac?”

“I’ll allow it,” Courfeyrac said magnanimously. “The more variety the better.”

Enjolras remained quiet for the rest of the discussion, which was slightly unusual; but if anyone noticed they chose not to comment, for which he was grateful.

Two days later, he bit the bullet and texted Cosette.


	2. That’s Thirty Minutes Away. I’ll Be There In Ten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I drank too much coffee today and accidentally wrote 10,000 words of fluff and emotionally stunted dweebs. I'm sorry Victor Hugo.

Cosette showed up at Enjolras’ apartment an hour after he texted her, in blue jeans and a cream-coloured sweater that hung off her but somehow only made her look even more adorable. Her hair was caught up in a messy bun on top of her head and she had a canvas satchel slung over her shoulder.

“You’ve never seen a single Tarantino film?” she asked incredulously as soon as he opened the door.

He sighed. “I know, I know.”

“Not even Pulp Fiction?” she demanded, brushing past him and into the living room. “It’s a modern classic!”

“So I’ve heard,” he said. He shut the door and followed her over to the couch, where she’d perched herself daintily. Cosette did everything daintily. It was her superpower.

“It’s okay,” she was saying as she rummaged through her bag, “you’re in luck. Thanks to mine and R’s combined movie collection, this is completely salvageable.”

“Who’s—? Oh, you mean Grantaire.”

She paused and glanced up at him. “I was with him when you texted me. He offered to let me borrow some DVDs to further your cultural education. Problem?”

“No problem,” he said. “I just didn’t realize you saw much of each other outside of meetings.”

She found the DVD she was hunting for, pulled it out of the bag, and pursed her lips. It looked as if she was fighting a smile. “I was helping him watch Éponine’s little brother and sister. Their usual babysitter got held up this morning and Éponine had to work, so.”

“You left him _alone_? In charge of minors?”

“Actually, he’s great with kids,” she said reprovingly.

“Before or after the eighth drink of the day?”

He knew it was cruel, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself saying it. Cosette raised her eyebrows at him, her expression an awful combination of surprise and disappointment, and he instantly regretted it.

“I hope you don’t say things like that to him,” she said quietly, and his stomach twisted with guilt. “It’s obvious you don’t like him much, but he thinks the world of you.”

Thoroughly humbled, Enjolras made no reply.

“So,” she said after a beat of silence, holding up the DVD case in her hand. “I figure we should start with the first and many would say the best—Reservoir Dogs.”

He sat back and resigned himself to his fate. Cosette kicked her boots off and curled up like a cat, looking as gleeful as he’d ever seen her.

When the credits rolled, Cosette looked at him and inquired eagerly, “So? What did you think?”

“It was alright,” he admitted grudgingly, “but who actually talks like that?”

She laughed. “You’d better get used to that style of dialogue. It’s kind of a Tarantino trademark.”

“Of course it is.”

“But you liked it, right?”

“I guess,” he grumbled. He had, actually, but it felt somehow wrong to admit it after Courfeyrac had spent all those years badgering him to watch _anything_ other than documentaries, to no avail.

Next up was Jackie Brown, which Enjolras did not enjoy as much as Reservoir Dogs, but according to Cosette it was one of Tarantino’s less popular films. He got up to hunt—unsuccessfully—for snacks in the kitchen, and when he came back Cosette had her phone out. “Um, so Marius and Courfeyrac want to come join us. Is that okay with you?”

“Sure,” he said wearily. “Why not?”

“You know if you invite Courfeyrac you invite everyone,” she pointed out, quite correctly.

“I know,” he said. “It’s okay. Tell them to bring food.”

“Okay.” She shrugged, and fired off a couple of texts in silence before hesitating. “Should I see if Grantaire’s free?” she asked carefully. “I know you’re not his biggest fan, but if someone says something to Éponine or Joly or Bossuet he’s going to know—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, suddenly deeply uncomfortable. “Really. I don’t mind. I’m not going to throw him out if he shows up, so please stop looking at me like that.”

“Alright,” she murmured, ducking her head, and he immediately felt like he’d just punched a kitten.

“I don’t hate Grantaire,” he found himself saying, almost desperately, as if to placate her. Which was absurd.

She looked up briefly from typing on her phone and said, “That’s good,” before returning her attention to the message she was writing.

“In fact I hardly ever _think_ about Grantaire.”

She hit ‘send’ and put her phone down. “Okay.”

“I don’t even know what he studies. Is he even a student?”

“Yes,” Cosette said with a slight smile. “Studio art and Classics.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said. Why hadn’t he known that? He knew what all of his other friends were studying (or, in Feuilly’s case, where they worked). “A double major? Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Cosette laughed. “Jesus, Enjolras, you’ve known him a lot longer than I have.”

He shrugged helplessly. “Grantaire and I don’t really talk.”

“Yeah, I can tell. Maybe you should think about being a little less judgmental about someone you barely know,” she said, getting to her feet and heading towards the kitchen.

“I’m not _judgmental_ ,” he said, stung.

She filled a cup with water from the tap and padded back into the living room. “Alright, whatever you say,” she said serenely, and took a sip of water. Her phone was buzzing incessantly on the couch where she’d left it, and she picked it up to read the flood of messages.

 **[5:46pm] Marius:** What kind of food do you want?

 **[5:46pm] Marius:** I think Courfeyrac is inviting everyone we know

 **[5:47pm] Marius:** I hope you’re prepared for this

 **[5:46pm] Courfeyrac:** HOLD OFF ON PULP FICTION UNTIL WE GET THERE

 **[5:46pm] R:** im pretty sure enjolras wouldnt want me at his place

 **[5:47pm] R:** but thanks

She made an exasperated sound. “Grantaire is refusing to come because he doesn’t think you want him here. _You_ text him.”

“I can’t. I don’t have his number.”

Cosette frowned. “What do you mean, you don’t have his number?”

“We’re not that close!” he said defensively.

“Give me your phone,” she said, rolling her eyes and holding her hand out. She punched in the number, saved the contact as ‘R’, and handed it back. “There. Now you _are_ that close. So text him and tell him you don’t hate his guts, which is what he thinks, by the way.”

“I don’t—” he began to protest, but she waved a hand to cut him off and pointed imperiously at his phone.

“Tell him, not me!” she insisted. “Also, what kind of food do you want?”

“If they could bring anything I actually eat, that’d be better than expected.”

“That’s cool,” she said, and called Marius. “Hi! Okay so, you know Enjolras is vegan and it is his place so…”

Enjolras stared at the blank message to ‘R’ he’d brought up on his phone, and failed utterly to think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t sound strange or forced. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said that he and Grantaire didn’t really talk. But he didn’t think he could withstand the guilt trip Cosette would lay on him if he didn’t at least try, so he typed: _Hi it’s Enjolras—_ and then promptly deleted it.

He huffed with frustration as soon as Cosette ended her phone call. “This is ridiculous. I have no idea what to say.”

She gave him a long look, and then flicked through her contacts before hitting ‘call’ and throwing the phone at Enjolras. He caught it and glanced at it, then stared at her. “What are you doing?”

“Be nice!” she said, grinning.

“Cosette!” he protested, but held the phone to his ear and contented himself with fixing her with a hard glare. Far from wilting beneath it as so many people tended to, she merely smiled encouragingly.

Grantaire picked up. “Are you really going to try to talk me into this?”

“Yes,” Enjolras blurted before he could think.

There was a pause. “Enjolras?”

“Hi, yeah,” he said awkwardly.

“Why are you calling me from Cosette’s phone?” Grantaire asked. He sounded almost as off-balance as Enjolras felt.

“Because she dialled your number and threw it at me,” Enjolras replied truthfully. When he caught sight of Cosette’s thunderous expression he hastily followed up with, “But I wanted to say you should come over, if you’re free. It sounds like everyone else is going to—” Cosette made a gesture that was part threat, part encouragement “—and they’d probably miss you if you weren’t here.” Cosette punched him in the shoulder with surprising force. “Jesus _Christ_ , was that really necessary?” he demanded.

“Um,” Grantaire said.

“Not you,” Enjolras told him quickly.

“Did Cosette just hit you?”

“If I say yes I think she’ll do it again,” Enjolras replied uncertainly. Cosette proved his theory, her fist catching him again in exactly the same spot, and he groaned.

“She’s got a mean left hook.” Grantaire sounded amused, at least. “Any idea why she’s hitting you?”

“A vague one,” Enjolras said, eyeing her with trepidation. She was leaning close, poised to strike again if he made another misstep.

“She’s trying to pummel you into pretending you don’t hate me, isn’t she?”

“Why would I have to—why does everyone think I _hate_ you all of a sudden?”

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. “Probably because you obviously can’t stand me. And now this is officially the most uncomfortable conversation I’ve had this week, so I’m just going to hang up now and we can pretend like this never happened, okay?”

“No, no, don’t hang up!” Enjolras said quickly, scooting a few inches away from Cosette.

Another pause. “Okay,” Grantaire said slowly. “This is me not hanging up.”

 “Will you please just come over?”

“That sounds like it’d be pretty awkward after this call,” Grantaire pointed out. “I think I’ll pass.”

“It won’t be!” Enjolras promised wildly, twisting away from Cosette, who was more or less climbing him in an effort to hear what Grantaire was saying. “And I honestly don’t have any problem with you, Grantaire. I’d really appreciate it if you’d make an appearance. The group wouldn’t feel the same without you.”

Cosette was sitting back on her heels and giving him a double thumbs-up and a wide grin.

“I, uh,” Grantaire said, and trailed off for a moment. “Yeah, alright. Um. Thanks.”

“Great,” Enjolras said, relieved. “Do you know the address?”

“Yeah, Courfeyrac’s made me drop him off at yours a few times,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras felt another pang of guilt. “It’s on the fourth floor, right?”

Enjolras filled him in on how to find the apartment and handed the phone back to Cosette, who squeaked excitedly, “We’re holding off on Pulp Fiction until everyone’s here so hurry up!” and disconnected.

“My arm is dead,” he informed her reproachfully.

She smiled, too sweetly. “Well, you deserved it. ‘ _They_ would miss you’?”

“It’s not like _I_ would,” he pointed out honestly.

“You didn’t have to _say_ that!” she argued, clearly scandalized, but then she seemed to settle. “At least you convinced him to come over.”

“I can’t believe you hit me. Where did you learn to punch like that?”

She smirked. “Grantaire taught me. You _did_ know that he’s a boxer, right?”

Enjolras sighed heavily and got up to make coffee. He was evidently going to need it.


	3. It Seems I've Created A Monster. A Strangely Persuasive Monster.

Courfeyrac and Marius arrived with Jehan, Bossuet and Musichetta in tow—Joly was apparently in the home stretch of an abominable assignment, but he sent word that he was there with them in spirit. They brought enough food to satisfy a small army, which was probably a good thing, or as Musichetta described it, “the bare minimum”.

They were busy arranging a portion of this on plates and in bowls (“like real people”) and transferring them to the coffee table when Grantaire showed up. There was a general chorus of greeting as he shut the door behind him, and he grinned and said, “Are we eating off _plates_ now? When did civilization reach us? Is this _adulthood_?”

“We’ve been tamed!” Bossuet said proudly.

“Let’s see how long that lasts,” Grantaire snorted.

Enjolras watched from the kitchen, completely distracted from the fries he was meant to be getting into the oven. He felt like he should say something to Grantaire, but he didn’t know what. It was a disconcerting feeling for someone who generally wielded words to great effect, and it wasn’t the first time he had felt it that day.

“Alright, Enjolras?” Marius asked as he searched the cupboards for more cups.

Enjolras blinked and looked back at the tray of fries in front of him. “Pardon? Yes. I’m fine.”

This earned him a slightly concerned look, but he busied himself with the oven, and after a moment Marius left the kitchen with an armful of glasses. Enjolras was silently thankful that the apartment had come with its previous tenants’ dishes, because they were suddenly coming in handy.

When he went back into the living room, the coffee table was laden with an eclectic mix of food, and someone had appropriated several blankets from the hallway cupboard and spread them around like picnic blankets. He let this pass without comment; he was just grateful that they hadn’t dismantled his bed in an effort to create more seating. Musichetta was curled around Bossuet on one such blanket, his fingers buried in her dark hair, and Jehan was sitting tailor-style next to them, trying to toss popcorn into Courfeyrac’s open mouth across the room. Cosette was back on the couch with Marius and Grantaire on either side of her, leaving a space for Enjolras. It placed him right next to Grantaire, and he hesitated for a split second before taking the seat.

He needn’t have worried; as soon as he sat down, Grantaire started to remove himself. _Really_ , Enjolras thought, a little annoyed. He opened his mouth to say something, and was promptly struck dumb by the same awful _lack_ of the right words that he’d been suffering from all day when it came to Grantaire; so, in a fit of frustration, he resorted to grabbing his wrist before he could get up, and pulled him back down.

Grantaire flinched so hard at his touch that he relinquished his grip almost immediately, but it had been obvious what he’d been trying to do. Grantaire sat quite still, staring at him in apparent shock. Enjolras stared back defiantly. Grantaire looked for a moment as if he was going to say something, but then he settled back and broke eye contact, accepting it for the moment. Enjolras relaxed slightly and took the bowl of popcorn off Jehan before he could waste the lot of it on Courfeyrac.

Bahorel, Éponine and Combeferre arrived last, Éponine brandishing a bottle of whiskey and crowing, “Fifteen minutes late, with Johnnie Walker!”

“Light of my life!” Grantaire shouted in response, twisting to face her. “Fire of my loins!”

“My sin, my soul,” she crooned, passing him the bottle. “That’s for _sharing_ , sweetness.”

Grantaire filled a cup to the brim and then obediently passed the bottle to Cosette, who poured a nip into her coffee and passed it on.

“Can we get this movie started already?” Courfeyrac demanded.

There was a murmur of agreement through mouthfuls of food. The latest arrivals arranged themselves on one of the blankets on the floor while Jehan got up and set the movie playing.

It was a much rowdier viewing than the first two had been, but then, that was to be expected with half the people in the room quoting along with the dialogue at various points and screaming with laughter at others. Again, Enjolras was forced to admit that he had actually enjoyed a movie purely for its entertainment value (Courfeyrac pretended to faint), and then it was on to Kill Bill Vol. 1. After the final fight scene brought the house down with hooting, clapping, and some frighteningly enthusiastic cheerleading on Cosette’s part, there was some debate over whether or not to continue the marathon that night. In the end only Enjolras, Grantaire, Combeferre, and Éponine chose to stay and watch Vol. 2; the latter two moved onto the couch, where an exhausted and slightly tipsy Éponine fell asleep halfway through the movie.

When it was over, Enjolras got up to make more coffee, wide-eyed and rambling to no one in particular about how _brilliant_ the film had been and how he couldn’t _believe_ it had taken him this long to see it. Combeferre listened with a tired smile, while Grantaire finished off the whiskey straight from the bottle and picked at the remaining food.

Éponine stirred slightly when Grantaire leaned over her to reach a half-empty bowl of dip.

“Shit, I missed the movie,” she mumbled. She made a half-hearted attempt to push her hair out of her face, and failed completely. “Shit,” she repeated, disgruntled.

Combeferre glanced down at her. “I’m going to head off. Do either of you need a ride home?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Thanks, but I brought my car tonight and I don’t like to leave it.”

Combeferre nodded. “Éponine?”

Éponine rolled onto her back, stretching her legs out over Grantaire’s lap, and yawned widely. “Yeah, alright,” she said, blinking herself awake.

Grantaire watched in fascination and not a little amazement as Combeferre got her onto her feet and into her coat, before expertly shepherding her out the door. He turned to look at Enjolras as he sat back down with a cup of black coffee in his hands and said, “I think they’re fucking.”

Enjolras blinked and frowned at him. “Pardon?”

“Éponine and Combeferre,” Grantaire elaborated.

“You think they’re—? Based on _what_ , exactly?”

“She just took him up on an offer to drive her home with no questions or debates, then let him _put her coat on her_.” Enjolras stared blankly at him. Grantaire sighed. “If anyone else tried to do that, she’d break their fucking kneecaps and run a mile,” he explained patiently.

“Why?” Enjolras asked slowly.

“Because she’s Éponine,” Grantaire said. “She’s a Thénardier. That’s just what they’re like. My point is, that was spectacularly out of character for her and I am 98% sure they’re fucking. Or she wants to fuck him. Or something along those lines.”

“Charming.”

“Are you drinking coffee? It’s past midnight.”

“I’m aware. I think I’m going to watch one more.” He hesitated. “Do you want to join me?”

Grantaire shrugged. “I might as well. I’m probably too drunk to drive right now.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize you drove here.”

“Well, you did call me and beg me to come over,” Grantaire said with a wry twist to his mouth that could have been interpreted as a smile. “It sounded kind of urgent.”

Enjolras turned his coffee mug in his hands. “Technically it was Cosette who called you.”

“Details,” Grantaire scoffed. “What did you want to watch next?”

“I don’t know. What do you suggest?”

“Inglourious Basterds,” Grantaire said promptly.

“Okay,” Enjolras said, and sorted through the movie cases until he found it. “Grantaire,” he said as he swapped the discs over, “why don’t you just crash here? Driving tired isn’t that much better than driving drunk, and you’ve had a lot of whiskey.”

“ _A lot_ is a relative term,” Grantaire said lazily, and then hesitated. “It’s fine. I’ll walk home if it’ll make you feel better.”

“No,” Enjolras insisted, grabbing a blanket off the floor as he headed back to the couch, “I don’t want you walking home by yourself at some ungodly hour of the morning. If I let you do that and you get stabbed or something Cosette will have my head.”

Grantaire cut him a sardonic look. “I’ll talk to her. You’re off the hook, alright?”

Enjolras frowned. “I didn’t consider myself to be _on_ the hook.”

“Look, I appreciate that you’re—I don’t know—making an effort to be nice? But whatever it is you’re doing, it’s unnecessary. We’re good.”

“I don’t think so,” Enjolras argued. “Apparently, up until today everyone was convinced that I hated you, including you. Obviously I need to be doing something differently. And I’m not offering you a place to crash because Cosette forced me to, I’m offering because I wouldn’t let _any_ of my friends drive or walk home if they were in your place.”

Grantaire was staring again. Enjolras raised his eyebrows at him, and he cleared his throat and looked away. “If you’re sure,” was all he said, and Enjolras nodded and settled back with the blanket across his knees to watch the movie.

 

\---

 

Enjolras awoke the next morning to the sound of rain on the roof and the unwelcome blaring of his alarm clock. It was 7:30am and he was exhausted—mostly because he’d made the mistake of staying up until 3:30 to finish Inglourious Basterds and clear away the mess his friends had left cluttering his coffee table.

When he passed through the living room on his way to the kitchen, it took him a second to remember why there was a person curled up under a blanket on his couch. Grantaire was out cold, still fully clothed right down to his leather jacket. He slept with his face pressed into the pillow Enjolras had taken off his bed for him, so that all he could really see of him was his black curls and a leather-clad shoulder.

He tried to be quiet in the kitchen, but there was only so much he could do to muffle the noise of the ancient coffee machine. By the time he came back into the living room Grantaire was sitting up and blinking owlishly at him.

“Morning,” Enjolras said. “There’s coffee if you want some.”

Grantaire hummed noncommittally. He scrubbed a hand over his face and frowned. “Did we get all the way through Inglourious Basterds last night?”

“I did,” Enjolras said with a slight smile. “You fell asleep.”

“Weak,” Grantaire muttered, shaking his head and fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. “Couldn’t even make it to the end of my favourite movie.”

“It’s your favourite?”

He shrugged. “My favourite as far as Tarantino goes.”

“I liked it,” Enjolras said thoughtfully, “but I think Kill Bill was better.”

“Kill Bill is golden,” Grantaire allowed. “I guess blowing up Hitler just appeals to me that little bit more.” He got up, cigarette dangling from his lip, and made for the door.

“You don’t have to go outside,” Enjolras found himself saying. “I don’t mind.” It was a ridiculous thing to say; he’d never let anyone smoke in his apartment, not even Feuilly or Courfeyrac. But it was raining outside, and it wasn’t as if one cigarette was going to do irreversible damage.

Grantaire paused and raised an eyebrow at him.

“It’s pouring,” Enjolras said, and took a nervous gulp of coffee. He didn’t have any reason to be nervous, but suddenly he was. “Open a window or something.”

Grantaire stared at him for a few moments, but then he shrugged and crossed the room. There was a large window overlooking the street, which he pushed open before lighting his cigarette.

“Cosette must’ve put the fear of god into you,” he mumbled.

Enjolras smiled wryly. “She didn’t have to. She just gave me that look like I’d kicked a puppy and I lost the will to go on being an asshole.”

Grantaire leaned against the wall, blew a plume of smoke out into the rain. “I hate when she does that.”

“She said you taught her how to throw a punch.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and nodded. “At the time it didn’t occur to me that she might end up punching _you_. But yeah.”

“I didn’t know you were a boxer.”

A shrug. “You never asked. Anyway,” he said, “Courfeyrac’s party. Any ideas so far?”

Enjolras shook his head. “I haven’t really thought about it yet,” he said honestly. “It’s kind of a lot to take in. What about you?”

Grantaire smirked. “It’s a surprise. I wouldn’t want to ruin it. Besides, what if someone steals my brilliant idea?”

“Are you calling me a thief?” Enjolras asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, but I _am_ going to suggest you watch Planet Terror and Death Proof.”

“So it’s a character from one of them.”

“Could be,” he said noncommittally, flicking ash out the window.

Enjolras hunted through the DVD cases that littered the floor beside the couch until he came up with the two he was looking for. “What the hell is a grindhouse?”

Grantaire rattled off the history of the genre as he finished his cigarette, so neatly and concisely it sounded as if he’d swallowed the Wikipedia article. Enjolras drank his coffee and listened.

“So,” he said eventually, “these movies are what, an attempt to recreate that?”

“Kind of,” Grantaire said. He flicked the remainder of his cigarette out the window and pulled it shut. “I mean, insofar as something like that can be recreated. It was very much a product of its time, you know? But Planet Terror and Death Proof were released originally as a double feature, so they ran back-to-back in theatres like they would if they were actual grindhouse films. Tarantino and Rodriguez basically did everything they could do make these movies feel authentic, although I’d argue they fell short of actually making exploitation films.”

Enjolras blinked. “You know a lot about this.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Not really. I’m just a fan.” He pushed off the wall and hesitated. “I’m gonna go.”

Enjolras nodded, wondering why this was suddenly awkward. “Okay. I’ll see you around?” It came out as a question, as if Grantaire ever missed a meeting, as if Enjolras doubted whether he’d be there this coming Wednesday.

Grantaire nodded as he crossed the room. “Yeah. Um, thanks for letting me crash here. And for inviting me—just—yeah.”

“It’s no problem,” Enjolras said quickly. “I’m glad you came.”

Grantaire ducked his head. “Okay. Well, I’ll see you.”

Enjolras counted three heartbeats after the door closed on Grantaire before he pulled out his phone and texted Combeferre: _Is there something going on between you and Éponine?_

He busied himself getting another cup of coffee while he waited for a reply. He didn’t have to wait long; he’d barely sat down again before he got, _Okay I know you didn’t work that out by yourself._

Enjolras shook his head, smiling. 


	4. Shots First, Questions Later!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might be time to admit that basically the only reason I started writing this was because I couldn't shake the image of Enjolras in this costume.

“This was a terrible idea,” Enjolras decides aloud.

“Well, I’m halfway done, so I think you’re past the point of no return,” Cosette informed him primly, grabbing his chin and turning his face to examine the effect in the light. “Besides, you’re the one who asked for my help.”

“I didn’t know it would take this long,” Enjolras complained. His hair had already taken up a full 45 minutes, and she’d been at work on his face for another quarter of an hour. He was beginning to see why Cosette had shown up to his place already in costume. At least the first thing she’d done when she’d gotten in the door was to paint his nails red, so they’d had time to dry.

“Stop frowning,” she scolded, pulling her hand back and fixing him with a warning glare. “You’re throwing me off.”

“What are you even doing?” he demanded. Surely it wasn’t necessary to do anything to his _eyebrows_ , for god’s sake.

“This,” she said, and with a deft movement of her hand she did something that felt like she was stabbing him in the brow bone. He breathed in sharply and stared at her in shock. “You’re lucky you have such a naturally perfect arch,” she informed him cheerfully, moving to the other brow and repeating the unexpectedly painful process. “I only need to tidy up a few strays, and then I can fill them in and—”

“Did you just pluck my eyebrows?” he asked incredulously.

“And you took it like a champ,” she agreed. “Most guys act like they’re being tortured when I do that.”

“You just ripped hair out of my face,” he emphasised. “With no warning. Without _asking_.”

She rolled her eyes, not bothering to pause in her work. She was sweeping a dark gold colour across his brows, which struck him as completely pointless, but then, he had to admit total ignorance of makeup. Maybe this was actually a crucial step. “Yes, yes, woe is you, but you’ll thank me when you see this. Your eyebrow game could make angels weep right now.”

“Great,” he muttered sourly.

“So, have you tried the dress on yet?” she asked, taking a moment to select a bone-coloured eyeshadow. “I can’t wait to see what it looks like on you."

“Of course I have. I wouldn’t have bought it if it didn’t fit.”

“And?” She asked, unperturbed by the snap in his tone. “Close your eyes.”

“It fits fine.”

“That colour’s amazing. I have the perfect lipstick to go with it. Open your eyes, let me see.” She sat back and squinted critically, before nodding once and digging around in her makeup bag. She came up with a small black bottle of something and told him, “Shut them again.”

He complied and tried to hold perfectly still as she dragged a tiny, ticklish brush along both his eyelids, sticking closely to the line of his eyelashes.

“Open,” she commanded, and he obeyed, resisting the urge to sigh. “Perfect,” she said, evidently pleased with her efforts. “Have you ever worn mascara before?”

“No,” he admitted. “Does that matter?”

She shrugged and twisted open a nondescript black tube of the stuff. “Not really. Just try not to blink until I tell you to.”

By the time she finally deemed his makeup done, it was almost 8:30 and Marius was starting to get antsy without Cosette, texting her every ten minutes saying people were starting to arrive and he missed her and he was saving her a shot. She smiled fondly at her phone and waved Enjolras into the bathroom to review her work and get changed into the dress.

He had to resist the urge to touch his face when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, just to confirm it was really _himself_ he was seeing reflected there. He had always been pretty— _pretty_ , not handsome—and it had only bothered him for as long as he’d been afraid to play it up by growing his hair out and wearing too-tight women’s jeans, heeled boots, occasionally letting Prouvaire paint his nails. He didn’t object to being seen as feminine; as far as he was concerned there was nothing _wrong_ with femininity, and the fact that anyone thought otherwise was a source of frustration to him.

However, he’d never bothered with makeup—never had the patience or the necessary interest in how he looked, which generally didn’t go much beyond establishing whether he looked clean and reasonably presentable. Nothing could have prepared him for the strangeness of looking in the mirror and seeing—well, a woman’s face. A very beautiful woman’s face, come to that, offset by the polished hairstyle Cosette had coaxed his hair into. She had spared no effort. His skin was utterly flawless and expertly stained with a perfectly measured hint of blush; his eyes were startlingly blue, emphasised with black liner and edged with lashes so long and dark they almost looked false. Even his brows, he had to admit grudgingly, looked different—elegantly arched and a little darker than usual. The lipstick he _did_ raise one hand to touch, lightly, because the colour was so shocking and so _enticing_ —cadmium red, almost violently bright, matte and staining his lips so thoroughly only the barest hint of colour came away on his finger. He stared for a moment, and found that no matter he did, he looked as if he was pouting coquettishly.

Cosette knocked on the door. “Are you okay in there?”

“You’re amazing,” was the only response he could come up with, and she laughed.

“I told you,” she called, sounding smug. “Hurry up, we’ve got to go.”

He blinked and remembered he was supposed to be getting changed. The dress was solid red, floor-length, long-sleeved and low-cut, and thankfully it wasn’t terribly complicated to get into. The birdcage veil took longer to arrange, but he managed it in the end. When he came out of the bathroom Cosette actually clapped her hands together and bit her lip on a smile.

“You are so _pretty_ ,” she cooed excitedly.

“Thanks mostly to you,” he said, but he couldn’t help smiling back at her. He knew it was kind of silly, but wearing the dress made him feel different. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it—it was as if wearing something so unusual for him meant he was allowed to act differently to how he normally would. It was strangely exciting, and a little nerve-wracking, all of which he did his best to push down and ignore for the moment.

He had opted to wear heavy military-style boots rather than heels, reasoning that his footwear was mostly covered by the length of the dress anyway, and he had no intention of wearing heels for upwards of four hours. Cosette deemed this choice a wise one, and hustled him out the door.

Courfeyrac’s party was in full swing by the time they arrived. Enjolras hesitated in the doorway for a moment, not exactly nervous, but not as confident as he usually was, either. Cosette caught his eye and smiled. He smiled back, lifted his chin, and lead the way in.

The first thing he registered was that the house was packed wall-to-wall, which was ridiculous, it was barely 9:30—but then again, it was Courfeyrac’s party, and Enjolras suspected Courfeyrac had the most extensive social network of anyone he’d ever met. The second thing that registered was that someone—it was difficult to tell who—had shown up as the Gimp from Pulp Fiction.

It wasn’t Courfeyrac, because Courfeyrac was currently sitting on the Gimp’s shoulders in the middle of a circle of cheering people, waving a baseball bat and shouting the lyrics to the song that was playing. In army boots, suspenders and a blood-spattered white singlet, he made a decent Sgt Donny Donowitz.

“— _to the left of me, jokers to the right! Here I am, stuck in the middle with you!_ ” He stopped singing as soon as he spotted the new arrivals, and his eyes went comically wide. “Reinforcements!” he bellowed, and scrambled down from the Gimp’s shoulders.

“Happy birthday!” Cosette sang, arms out for a hug as he bounded towards them. He caught her up and swung her around, almost dislodging her black bob-cut wig. When he put her down she handed him a neatly beribboned bottle of Grey Goose and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you, Mrs Wallace!” he said, grinning at her manically. “You should find Joly. He’s Vincent Vega. I haven’t seen your husband yet, but the night is young—and Marius is around here somewhere,” he added, waving the baseball bat distractedly as he eyed Enjolras. “ _You_ look incredible! Shosanna Dreyfus, right?”

Enjolras nodded, a little shyly, and smiled. “Happy birthday.” He held out a carefully giftwrapped object. Courfeyrac cocked his head at it in puzzlement before backtracking to place his baseball bat and the bottle of vodka on the kitchen countertop so he could take it and unwrap it.

Enjolras knew that the majority of Courfeyrac’s gifts this year would be some variation on booze, drugs, and glitter—which was fine, Courfeyrac was definitely a fan of all those things—but Enjolras was no good at any of that, and anyway, he figured there was a limit to how many mind-altering substances one man could consume in a night. In the end he’d simply framed a photo of the whole group, Cosette and Marius included, that had been taken by Jehan’s mother just before their latest rally.

In it, they were gathered together on the sidewalk outside Jehan’s house, with Combeferre, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac right in the middle, arms around each other, all of them smiling directly at the camera (for once in their lives). Cosette was next to Enjolras, smiling at something Marius had said while he stood blushing and grinning on her other side. Joly and Bossuet were kneeling in front of Courfeyrac with Musichetta perched between them, one arm around each of their shoulders and half-sitting on both their laps, all of them laughing uproariously. Bahorel had both arms wrapped around Feuilly and was apparently in the middle of demonstrating his ability to lift him bodily off the ground, grinning widely at the camera, while Feuilly laughed in surprise and Éponine neatly sidestepped his flailing legs with a sardonic sideways glance at the pair of them. Grantaire was crouched in front of Enjolras, ignoring the camera entirely and holding his hand out to a passing cat, which was sniffing tentatively at his fingers. Jehan was sitting tailor-style at Combeferre’s feet, throwing up a peace sign, a cigarette clamped between his teeth as he grinned at the camera.

Courfeyrac stared at it for a few long moments once he got it unwrapped, and when he looked up at Enjolras, his eyes were full of tears. “ _Thank_ you,” he said sincerely, and wasted no time in pulling Enjolras into a crushingly tight hug. Enjolras returned it as best he could while he was having the breath squeezed out of him.

“Christ, man, this is so cool,” Courfeyrac gushed, taking a step back and looking down at the photo in his hands again. “I’m gonna go put this in my room right now so it doesn’t get smashed or anything. Thank you so much, this is great.”

“You’re welcome,” Enjolras said, a little breathless, but pleased. Courfeyrac paused to pick up the Grey Goose before he turned to head upstairs.

Enjolras looked around to find that Cosette had vanished, but he could see Jehan in the kitchen, so he pushed his way through the crowd towards him. He had come as Elle Driver, judging by the outrageous white nurse’s outfit, white eye patch with a red cross on it, red lipstick, and poker-straight blond hair hanging loose around his shoulders. He had even braved heels. He was fishing a cup out of the sink, which had a row of bottles arranged next to it; as Enjolras got closer he realized someone had actually filled the sink itself with what looked like punch but was more likely a toxic mix of gin, vodka, and white rum, slightly diluted with orange juice and lemonade. He watched Jehan take a hearty gulp from the cup he’d just pulled out of this dubious concoction, and hoped that no one had decided to infuse it with bodily fluids this early in the evening.

“Jehan,” he said, to get his attention. Jehan glanced at him and did an honest to god double take, eyes widening as he took him in.

“Wow,” he said after a moment, and smiled at him, eyebrows raised. “This comes as a surprise to no one, but you make a _gorgeous_ woman.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras said, tugging at his skirt and feeling incredibly sober. “Are you drinking from the sink right now?”

“No,” Jehan said with great dignity, “I am drinking from this cup, thank you very much. And it’s punch.”

“Punch. Right.”

“Are _you_ going to be drinking tonight?” Jehan asked, his smile turning slyly hopeful. “Because if sink-punch doesn’t appeal, I’m sure we could find some top-shelf liquor around here.”

“No,” Enjolras said quickly, “I’m fine.”

Jehan shrugged. “Well, if you change your mind, speak up. We’re all more than happy to help corrupt an innocent.”

“I know,” Enjolras said drily. “If I find myself suddenly overcome with a burning desire to get fucked up and participate in an orgy, you’ll be the first to know.”

“An _orgy_? Goodness, I didn’t know you were aware of the concept,” Jehan teased. “There’s hope for you yet.”

Someone barrelled into Enjolras from behind, and suddenly Courfeyrac was shouting into his ear, “Price of entry is, you do a shot!”

“What? No,” Enjolras said, twisting to frown at him.

“But it’s my birthday,” Courfeyrac whined. “Please? Just one little shot! It’s barely one drink! For my _birthday_! Prouvaire will join in, won’t you Jehan?”

Enjolras eyed him dubiously. “What kind of shot?” he asked suspiciously.

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened, as if he couldn’t believe his luck. “Nothing terrible,” he said hastily. “Tequila! Tequila’s fun, look, you get to lick some salt and eat some lime, it’s great!” He waved a nearly-full bottle of golden liquid in the air and gestured frantically to a salt shaker and bowl of lime wedges standing ready on the counter.

Enjolras rolled his eyes and said, “You said _one_ ,” and that was all it took. He barely had time to blink before Courfeyrac and Jehan had lined up three shot glasses and filled them all to the brim with tequila. They insisted Enjolras salt the back of his hand and lick it up before he swallowed the shot. It tasted awful and the fumes were worse, crawling back up his throat and stinging his nose while he stuck his tongue out and huffed disgustedly. “Lime!” Courfeyrac reminded him, laughing at his expression, and he found a wedge of overpowering citrus stuffed into his mouth before he had time to respond. And, well. At least it was better than the tequila.

“That was _terrible_ ,” he told Courfeyrac severely.

“That was free alcohol,” Jehan corrected him, before tossing back another shot and munching happily on another lime wedge.

The song changed, and a wordless cry of approval went up around the room. It sounded familiar to Enjolras, but he couldn’t quite place it until he realized that everyone in the house was very abruptly doing the twist a la John Travolta and Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. Courfeyrac seized Jehan’s hands and pulled him out of the kitchen to dance, and Enjolras leaned against the counter, watching with a slight smile on his face.

And then he heard Grantaire’s voice, saying, “Holy _shit_ ,” and he looked around to see him edging into the kitchen, pushing past a multitude of dancing bodies; he barely seemed to notice them, he was so intently focused on Enjolras. His hair was unusually tamed and combed straight back from his forehead, and he was dressed in jeans, boots, and a metallic silver jacket. An impressive fake scar ran down one side of his face.

“Hi,” Enjolras said inanely.

“You’re Shosanna,” Grantaire said faintly. “Holy shit,” he repeated.

Enjolras shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Yeah. And you’re...Stuntman Mike?”

Grantaire blinked and looked down at himself as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing. “Oh. Yeah.”

“That scar’s pretty convincing,” Enjolras said. He was grasping at conversational straws—something about the way Grantaire was staring at him rattled him—but it wasn’t a dishonest comment. “Who did it?”

“I did,” Grantaire said absently, looking as if he wanted to lift Enjolras’ veil to get a better look at his eyes. Enjolras looked down at the lime in his hand to avoid meeting his eyes, and Grantaire must have followed his gaze because the next thing he said was, “Is that fucking _nail polish_?” in a strangled tone.

Enjolras looked at him and frowned. “Something the matter with that?”

“No,” Grantaire said instantly, raising empty palms. “Nope. I just—good costume. _Great_ costume.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras said slowly. He kind of wanted to ask if Grantaire was alright, but he thought it might sound a little rude, and the last thing he needed was to pick a fight with Grantaire on tonight of all nights. Courfeyrac would never forgive him. He fidgeted with the remnants of the lime wedge and said nothing further.

“Are you literally just standing here eating pieces of lime?” Grantaire asked after a moment, and Enjolras was startled into laughter.

“No,” he said, amused. “Courfeyrac made me do a shot.”

Grantaire stared at him in open astonishment. “You’re drinking? You _drink_?”

“Not usually,” Enjolras said, still smiling. “But it’s a special occasion.”

He caught sight of a flash of bright blond hair moving sneakily up behind Grantaire, and carefully didn’t react in the moments before Jehan launched himself onto his back, shrieking a war cry. Grantaire barely flinched, apparently used to this sort of treatment; he merely grinned and hooked his arms under Jehan’s legs, holding him in place while he wrapped his arms around Grantaire’s shoulders and clung to him like a monkey, apparently totally unconcerned by the extent to which his skirt was riding up.

“And how are _you_ , capital R?” Jehan purred in his ear. “Have you seen our dear Enjolras this evening?”

“I have,” Grantaire said evenly, eyes flickering to Enjolras before he looked over his shoulder at Jehan.

“And have you ever seen anything more beautiful?”

“Nobody who’s ever laid eyes on Enjolras has ever seen anything more beautiful,” Grantaire said matter-of-factly, and let Jehan slide down off his back. Enjolras felt his face heat up.

“Shots!” Courfeyrac crowed, bounding into the kitchen with his baseball bat back in hand.

“One more,” Jehan agreed, “but then we should slow down for a while. I think we’re due to start feeling that acid soon.”

“You’re on acid?” Enjolras asked, unsurprised but curious.

Jehan nodded happily. “I got Courfeyrac four tabs for his birthday and he was kind enough to share with Bahorel and myself.”

“And Bahorel and Feuilly got me a tidy little portion of pure MDMA,” Courfeyrac added gleefully, “so we decided we might as well mix the two.”

“Well, it is _definitely_ going to be a happy birthday for you, my friend,” Grantaire laughed.

Courfeyrac smiled indulgently at him and said, “Do you want a shot?” Grantaire shook his head, so Courfeyrac turned his attention to Enjolras, jabbing an imperious finger at him and saying, “You’re doing another shot!”

“You said I only had to do one,” Enjolras reminded him.

“I lied,” Courfeyrac grinned. “Come on, just one more.”

‘Just one more’ turned into four more in fairly rapid succession, and by the time Courfeyrac was satisfied enough to turn him loose on the rest of the party, Enjolras was decidedly tipsy. Or drunk. What exactly was the difference between drunk and tipsy, anyway? He’d never thought about it before; never had any reason to. But now here he was, having to concentrate on walking in a straight line and experiencing an overpowering urge to lean heavily on anyone who spoke to him.

It was either going to be a long night or a very short one.


	5. He Is A Rambunctious Sort, Ain't He?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies for the super delayed update! Real life and other projects have been consuming most of my time and attention. I do intend to finish this, but it's probably going to be a bit sporadic because it's more a silly little stress-relief thing for me to write than something I'm taking super seriously. I'm having fun with it, and hopefully some of you lovely people are too.

By the time Combeferre and Éponine arrived, Marius was crouched in front of the oven, looking more panicked than usual and frantically stuffing bagels into his mouth. The whole effect was offset by the impeccable tuxedo he was wearing. Grantaire was leaning over the countertop and watching him as if this was completely unremarkable behaviour, nodding and saying, “No, you’re right. That makes sense, man. Make sure you get all of them.”

“What the hell is he doing?” Éponine muttered. Barefoot, with her long curly hair loose around her shoulders, her legs bared in a tiny pair of shorts, and wearing a tight white t-shirt, she was unmistakably Jungle Julia.

Combeferre eyed her sideways, suppressed a sigh, and said, “Only one way to find out.”

She was already heading into the kitchen, demanding an explanation of Grantaire, who smiled in greeting and said, “He was worried that someone would eat his bagels if he didn’t.”

“Jesus Christ, how drunk is he?”

“Drunk enough to think that eating six bagels in a matter of minutes is the only way to prevent food theft,” Grantaire said gleefully.

Éponine fixed him with a hard stare. “And you didn’t think to stop him?”

He shrugged. “I tried. He started crying, so I stopped.”

She gaped at him for a moment, then looked to Combeferre for support, but he had found Courfeyrac and was in the midst of being either hugged or climbed, it wasn’t clear which. After a moment they were joined by a beautiful blonde woman in a fitted red dress, who smiled a red-lipped smile and regarded Combeferre with unmistakable affection from behind an old-fashioned veil; Éponine stared for a moment before the penny dropped and she recognised the woman as _Enjolras_.

“R,” she began, but he had seen her looking and cut her off with a groan.

“Don’t start,” he warned her.

“Isn’t that—?”

“Yes. Whatever your question was going to be, the answer is yes.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, torn between concern and amusement as she watched him collapse dramatically onto the countertop and cover his head with both arms. 

“No,” he mumbled without lifting his head.

“I did it!” Marius announced from the floor. Éponine and Grantaire both eyed him dubiously as he brushed ineffectively at the crumbs on his tux and hauled himself to his feet with difficulty. As soon as he made it into a standing position, the triumphant expression on his face vanished, instantly replaced with apprehension.

“Feel sick?” Grantaire asked, and Marius nodded. “Yeah. Come on. Bathroom’s upstairs.”

He hooked an arm around Marius’ waist and led him off. It was only as she watched them walk away that it occurred to Éponine that Grantaire had seemed unusually sober, especially considering the way Enjolras looked tonight. She made a mental note to ask him about it later.

There was a sturdy old table that Courfeyrac and Marius customarily used for beer pong situated in the middle of the living room. When Enjolras ventured past it, it was being used as a stage by a blonde-wigged Musichetta—in a teal silk blouse, a knee-length skirt that would have been exceedingly sensible but for the thigh-high split baring most of one leg, and a slightly too-big lab coat, he guessed she was Dr Dakota Block. She was currently doing her best Cherry Darling impression to the beat of an obnoxious pop song (apparently Courfeyrac had run out of Tarantino soundtracks to play—that or he was simply at the point of drunkenness that demanded Rihanna).

Joly and Bossuet were engaged in a drinking game with the Gimp across the room—they were Jules and Vincent from Pulp Fiction, judging by their guns, dark suits, and the fact that Bossuet was wearing a truly hilarious wig. The Gimp, Enjolras realized suddenly, was in fact Bahorel; he had unzipped the mouth of his hood to do a shot, and there was no mistaking that grin, even from the other side of the room.

“Courfeyrac tells me you were doing tequila shots,” Combeferre said over the music, startling him slightly. He was impeccably handsome in what was probably a genuine WWII British army uniform—he had an eclectic and rather expensive collection of memorabilia.

“It was revolting,” Enjolras told him, grinning. “He pulled the ‘it’s my birthday’ card and I couldn’t tell him no, you know what he’s like.”

“Sure you don’t feel like throwing up?”

“I’m nowhere near throwing up,” Enjolras said with stern dignity. “I’m practically sober.”

“Oh, of course,” Combeferre murmured dryly. “My mistake.”

Enjolras huffed in irritation. He _was_ practically sober. Well, mostly. At least, like, 65% sober. More sober than the girl he’d seen vomiting in the bathroom the last time he’d gone upstairs to find Cosette.

“You don’t believe me,” he almost whined, except he _did not_ whine, so it wasn’t whining.

Oh, God, he was drunk.

He worked on looking less drunk, but wasn’t quite sure how to go about it; whatever he ended up doing with his face had Combeferre laughing, so he guessed he was doing a terrible job of it and gave up.

Two Courfeyrac-enforced beers later, Enjolras found himself standing outside in the driveway with Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire, who was rolling a cigarette with careless dexterity.

“No, see, Death Proof has _elements_ of exploitation, but it’s an homage, not a true example of it,” Grantaire was arguing with no one in particular. “The car chase, sure—the gratuitous lapdance scene, okay—but those things alone do not an exploitation film make. Compared to the big-name originals of the ’70s, Death Proof is very tame and plot-heavy. It’s too _sophisticated_ to be called exploitation."

“What big-name originals?” Enjolras asked, struggling to keep up. He was only half-listening, concentrating the majority of his attention on preventing himself from swaying drunkenly on the spot. 

Grantaire glanced at him as he patted down his jacket for his lighter. “Vanishing Point, the original Gone In 60 Seconds, Race With The Devil, Dirty Mary Crazy Larry. Exploitation covers a lot of subgenres though, it’s not limited to carsploitation—”

“I’ve never heard of any of those,” Enjolras interrupted, shaking his head.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I guess most people who don’t have any particular interest in exploitation films wouldn’t have.” He lit his cigarette, and Enjolras realized it smelled decidedly not like a cigarette. “Cannibal Holocaust is popularly considered a pinnacle of the genre,” Grantaire continued, exhaling thick white smoke that smelled a little like the incense Jehan favoured in his apartment. “You’d hate it. It’s a hot mess of sloppy filmmaking, racism, colonialism, misogyny, you name it. I’m pretty sure one of the lead actors was in Debbie Does Dallas, for God’s sake. It’s ridiculous.”

“What’s Debbie Does Dallas?” Joly asked.

Grantaire passed the joint to him and answered: “It’s porn, man, where have you been?”

Joly shrugged and grinned. “I don’t watch much porn from the ’70s.”

“You should,” Grantaire said seriously. “It’s a trip. Some of it was so fucking weird, like that triple-X Alice In Wonderland musical.”

“ _What_?” Bossuet demanded, laughing.

Grantaire nodded. “I’m not even kidding—it’s a real thing, look it up. It’s actually worth watching, on a basic entertainment level. I mean, if it’s not the weirdest shit you’ve seen in a long time then you’re living a much more interesting life than most people.”

“It’s a porn musical?” Joly asked incredulously.

“Of Alice in Wonderland,” Grantaire confirmed. Joly passed the joint to Bossuet. “It’s the same basic plot but adapted so it’s about a teenage Alice’s sexual awakening and journey to self-acceptance or something. It’s almost cute.”

Joly shook his head. “How do you even find these things?”

“I have no idea,” Grantaire said complacently, reaching out to reclaim the joint from Bossuet, only to be intercepted by a pale, girlish hand.

“Grantaire, did you tell Marius that he should eat a whole lot of bagels for some reason?” Cosette demanded, cocking her hip and holding the joint out of his reach.

“I didn’t tell him to do that,” Grantaire said quickly, “he came up with it all on his own.”

“And you didn’t _stop_ him?”

“He was really set on it,” Grantaire complained, sidling closer to her and eyeing the joint longingly. “I helped him upstairs so he wouldn’t throw up in the kitchen sink, c’mon, what do you want from me?”

“Next time he gets trashed and has a genuinely stupid idea, you stop him,” Cosette said smartly, and thumped him in the shoulder.

“Jesus fuck, _ow_.”

“That’s what you get for teaching her how to punch,” Enjolras interjected wisely.

Cosette eyed him sideways with a confused frown. “Are you…smoking pot?”

“No,” he said honestly. “These guys are. I’m just.” He stopped and thought about it for a moment. “Listening to Grantaire?”

Cosette raised her eyebrows. Joly mumbled something Enjolras didn’t catch and Bossuet started to snicker. Grantaire glared at them and said loudly, “I’m sorry your boyfriend is a dipshit when he’s drunk, Cosette, I’ll try to babysit him more effectively in future. Now will you give me my damn joint back?”

Cosette’s eyes narrowed. She dropped the joint and crushed it under her heel, ignoring Grantaire’s cry of annoyance. “Drugs are bad for you,” she told him matter-of-factly, before she turned and marched back inside.

Joly and Bossuet were both giggling hysterically by this point, both at the poleaxed look on Grantaire’s face, and at Enjolras’ obvious confusion.

“What happened to Marius?” Enjolras asked blankly.

Grantaire sighed as Joly and Bossuet clung to each other for support, cackling like a pair of hyenas; Bossuet’s wig was sitting lopsided on his head, and Joly had a death grip on his tie, as if convinced he’d fall the second he let go. 

“Nothing,” Grantaire told him. “Let’s go inside, it’s fucking Arctic out here.”

“I can’t go inside,” Enjolras told him, wide-eyed. “If Courfeyrac makes me do one more shot I’m going to vomit or fall asleep or both.”

“How many shots have you had?” Grantaire asked, frowning.

Enjolras had to think about it, which was a bad enough sign. “Five?” he said finally. "And beer. I _hate_ beer."

“Jesus Christ, how are you still standing? Courfeyrac is a fucking idiot,” Grantaire said irritably. “No wonder you’re so hammered. Come on.” When Enjolras hesitated, Grantaire held his hand out and said, “I’m not going to let anyone give you anything but water from now on, okay?”

And Enjolras might have been drunker than he’d ever been in his life, and maybe he and Grantaire had never been particularly friendly, but he took his hand and let him lead him inside; and while he was too trashed to overthink it, he knew Grantaire wasn’t going to leave him alone.


End file.
